A Quaint Proposal
by Lorindel
Summary: Ariadne Oliver comes to grip with the thorny issue of her writing. Monsieur Poirot is eager to help, only on certain peculiar conditions.
1. 1

_Warning: Agatha Christie's world does not belong to me. I merely play with the larger-than-life characters and hope that one day I'll inherit them._

-Madame, that is too much for Poirot! For the sake of my detective's honor, you cannot make the mayhem of this case!

-Come on, Poirot, you know I don't have any clue of what will come after Sven discovers the red herring of the spectacle. You can't possibly imagine my inserting another one! And what should it be? A monocle? Absurd!

-You are too much of the writer, and not enough of the crime investigator! Your story line is not plausible, and Poirot will not abide to it!

Having howled that, the little man furiously darted out the room, leaving me, Ariadne Oliver, crime writer of the century, winner of the Pulitzer Price of the last two years, abashed and confused. Well, at least some things did not change over the years. I always followed my strict apple diet and Poirot systematically lampooned what the literary intelligentsia and my public called my works of art; what the Herald named the "most spellbinding whodunits ever written", my detective friend sharply coined the phrase "namby-pamby hotchpotch of nonsense". Thus, I was divided between two superior instances: on the one hand, I was doomed to respect my poetic instinct and the rules of the art, and on the other hand, I regard Poirot's field expertise highly, and could not afford to lose his friendship by literary negligence. I needed first-hand witnesses; I needed a professional outlook. The rub was, fiction was not real life, therefore my protagonist – and my plot - could act a little eccentrically insofar it wound up on a good denouement. That was my motto, on the ground that my readers would prefer an unorthodox narrative, amusing and thrilling altogether, than an uptight, although accurate, story line. Besides, I got a kick out of abnormal plots and general transgression of realistic conventions. If my audience shared my quirk, Poirot held a personal grudge against these vagaries. I knew he found a certain pleasure in reading Sven's adventures – the joy of the professor correcting a slipshod, but entertaining essay. Even more, he loved to correct me abundantly, and explain where the flaws reside and how to emendate them - till nothing of my pristine canvas remained. At least he did not insist on changing my hero's confession: Sven still revelled in a wholesome, substantial beans meal, and not in some outlandish friteries. In the end, our discussions were both infuriating and enjoyable. Till now, Poirot did find some room for compliment, and I to accept them with the humility expected.

But I seemed to have overstretched the mark. I decided to go and humble myself before Poirot. Though I did not see him through rose-tinted glasses, I still needed his outraged presence, his well-advised thoughts, his pedantic lessons. I was even ready to propose him the lion's share – to write a novel at four-hands. His expertise and professional experience would tune down my screwiness. On my side, I would flare up the youthful enthusiasm for carving a well-balanced sentence. I would ignite the poetic furore that was entangled in Poirot's severe gray cells. With our conjoint talents, we would sway the throng – scare off potential murderers - invent a new genre and, by doing so, a civilization.

Silence answered my repeated knocks on the wooden door of my soon-to-be sidekick's Palladian villa.

-Don't be fussy Poirot, I know you didn't mean what you said!

Or perhaps another approach would do the trick.

-Too bad I have to redistribute these Cuban cigars to the poor.

The rumble of a bunch of keys was distinctly heard behind the carved panel, and finally the boggled, familiar brown eyes loomed over a dish warmer on a silver lining. A delicious scent of roast-beef transpired through the interstices and my stomach began to grumble. Apples were clearly not substantial enough for a writer, but they contribute to the creation of her legend. (A note to my readers: this is the message I endeavored to convey, so stop bugging me with Sven's artichokes. Since when has this character prevailed on his creator? How I understand Conan Doyle's scheme of getting rid of Sherlock Holmes. He could not be more in the right: tobacco is dead unhealthy.)

-Madame, I was waiting for your arrival. I suspected you were famished, so I cooked for you favorite papa Poirot's edibles. Please, do enter. The table it is set, and an Armagnac – fabulous! Ancient heirloom from my grandaunt - has already been poured in the verres a vin.

He ushered me into the vast, amber-lit dining room, as if the run-in has not occurred. I did not need my feminine intuition to assume he was up to something. For now, Poirot was whistling mischievously, setting up cutlery and arranging a bouquet of white roses on the damask silky tablecloth. Was he trying to butter me up? Had my paranoiac senses have not been dulled by the intoxicating flavor of the alcohol, I would have uttered it out loud. Instead of an unjustified lambast, I asked him (without the dryness I intended to voice):

-I presume that you slept over our quarrel and that you are ready for another start-up?

My interlocutor smiled and looked unmoved by my outright question.

-I have indeed pondered on your… complaints. Albeit your stubbornness that hinders you from seeing what Poirot's sharp mind sees most acutely, you have a legitimate claim to your writing. After all, you are _the artist, _(he waved his hand with what I interpreted a slight touch of contempt)and I am merely the indulgent counselor, or less ambitiously, your crutch. And that, Madam, is a role that I would endorse willingly. With one condition.

So that was the moment where he would let the cat out of the bag. I could not say, at the time, that I was not relieved by his good-humored tone, but I knew him, and more, I knew he was preparing a master stroke. As in a criminal case, he was installing his pawns on the chessboard. One of my soldiers has moved forward, and my opponent (alas, too gifted for my weak strength; I always failed miserably at the game) was on the verge of a sudden and scathing retaliation, a _coup de maître._ Expecting the worst, I glared at him and saw his eyes glittering with amusement.

-Do not worry, my friend! My proposition, it is not harmful at all, quite the contrary.

His voice softened:

-What I ask from you is my sharing the, how do you call it… the soft money you will earn at my expenses. Let me explain myself: I think, not without a cause, that your next inquiry illustrates my last case at the perfection. It is only fair if you accept to give me a 10% of your wages, but, _attention!_ Not in coins. I expect that you return the favor of your misdemeanor by attending with me the scenes of the crime.

I was totally flummoxed. Not only did he steal my own ideas of a partnership, but also he had guessed my secret desire of actually living my fictions.

-I am adamant that you will improve your sometime disorganized plots, and I will gain a most agreeable companion. It is the deal most perfect, wouldn't you think?

I was not so sure about the second part of his discourse, but I could not care a straw: at last, Sven would listen to and obey a superior instance that would lead him exactly where he was supposed to head. And if he lost some weight during the process of complying, which he perennially hated, much the better for him. Little did I know Poirot's hidden motives, but at the instant, I was only eager to fantasize on the mellow texture of a blood clot or the purple circles of strangulation on a victim's throat.


	2. 2

The day after, an old lady was mysteriously missing, and her heirs turned up on her threshold. Of course, Poirot suspected that there was more here than meet the eyes. Of course, my brain was vacant and needed stimulation, Poirot stated matter-of-factly. A few minutes later, I was treading the cobbled path to Cawdor's hill and silently cursing the man who has coaxed me so easily. Since Sven (not to mention my sometime disastrous marriage), it had not happened. I wanted to be sure I would not be eking – again - my living over some men's heel. Poirot framed me, surely, but it was not irrevocable (at least, it _was_ Poirot, not some suspiciously handsome lonely widows hunter. Or self-sufficient pen-pushers entangler).

I was still arguing with myself when I arrived before the front door (I definitely could sense a repetitive pattern here). The bottom line of my internal (furious) lawyer was that Poirot, using me as a scout, relished in his authoritative personality and spared him the pain of practical researches. That was exploitation. On the other hand, he acted as the legitimate master mind of the couple, on the basis that I was a clumsy, slightly backward pupil. That was defendable too, except that my vanity was taking a severe whacking. No, Poirot was not to be blamed; had I have been more careful, more of a stylist, I should never have required an _esthete_'s services. Bah, these afterthoughts were supercilious, along with the rather infuriated look on my visitor's face after I found her off-guard in her vegetable garden. She lifted up her muddy, leeks-clutching hands as if she was on the verge of being beaten.

-I've come to ask you a few questions, Mrs. Donaghy! I yelled (I have always been afraid of gardeners - you can never predict their actions, stemming from the frustration of being a downscale employee who had not been listed in the master's will).

That was heavy-handed. A fault of an amateur, even if Poirot taught me that witnesses should never, ever, be confronted with cop-wise questions. Furthermore, my witness had not only a troubled past, but also some troubled ex-convicts' children: clearly, that was not the best starting point I had ever found. However, helping her to carry the three abominable baskets filled with rhizomes and sticky worms soothed her mood, putting her into a confessional mode I strongly encouraged (with the extra-help of one single drop of whisky I quickly poured in her teacup. Using unorthodox methods was one of Sven's favorite tricks, but contrarily to him, I could not help feeling a bit guilty. Naturally, Poirot would not be informed).

I gathered some useful pieces of information and went back to our general quartier. We (him, more likely) had decided his salon would be the center of our investigations. Comfortably seated in a velvet armchair, a glass of cherry in my hand, I began to tip off Poirot on my findings. I was rather content with myself, having discovered that the lady in question was a relative of the victim (her aunt, specifically), and that she possessed a martinet, hung on the wall of her bedroom, that looked very ominous.

Strangely, Poirot's face grew more and more reddish as my narrative progressed. When I mentioned that phenomenon to him, he startled and got up all of a sudden. In the first place, I suspected the liquor had been unpleasant to his stomach. I was soon disenchanted.

-Madam, that is preposterous! Even Scotland Yard and its armada of _imbéciles_ would have made better progresses than you! You do not comprehend that the mind, it is a multiple-layered motor, and that you must abide to the reasonable part of it.

-But how, Poirot? I asked dismally. Never before had he given me such a piece of his mind. He usually kept his tantrums for the vile murderers of his cases, or his incompetent servant Hastings (as he named him), and I was not sure I was satisfied of joining this particular cast.

-You shall do exactly what I command you, and that irrevocably means: not trespassing your rights!

-Bloody hell, Poirot, I answered, shocked, you know I have the makings of a fictional detective, not of a real one! If you gave me some time for adjusting, I should be able to help you.

I raised my voice; after all, Ariadne Oliver did not blush in front of an audience; why should she be ashamed of herself before a pair?

-But lectures won't do, neither these sharp aspersions of yours. You must leave me room for improvement.

Even the dumbest of the physiognomist could tell Poirot was on edge. Having intensely stared at me for an endless second, he finally puffed a sigh and took a sip of his liqueur de cassis. The ice was not broken yet; I knew that my viewpoint was unpleasant and offbeat to him.

-The role of the mentor, it is not, as you say, a piece of cake. And never had I such a student like yourself, Madam (when would he abandon that qualification I found aloof?). Poirot too have to learn, therefore he will not wreak havoc on you.

He smiled with his usual discreet, amiable, and dignified gentleness; the Christic air of one who suffers for the sins of others was casting its presence on my friend's face. Poirot would have tamed Ponce Pilate himself, would I say if I was feeling prophetic, but I favored modern literature more: Mr. Hyde had disappeared and his antinomy was back, much to my relief. Looking at each other, I sensed that we were silently bracing ourselves for a fight of a new sort.

§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§

-Poirot, you should know my gender-sensitive interpretation. A male author would print his mark on his text, as would a female one. The difference is minimal but significant: characterization of the protagonists, sexual choices, general atmosphere, style, etc., etc. I suspect the subconscious is acting on our behalf. Anyway, I spare you the tedious details; that's good enough for the Virginia Woolf and other engagés writers. All this pedantic fuss bores me at the utmost. But I'm distressed, Poirot! Our four-hands duo puzzles my sexualized inmost writing instance!

-I understand from your tumultuous garrulousness, Madam, that you are split between the feminine or the masculine perspective.

-More or less, yes. You see, I –

-Please, do let me speak to you frankly. I think the only spoke in the wheel is your prejudices. Women are adorable beings, men a bit less, but in the end only their works remain, _n'est-ce pas_? My investigations, as magnificent as they are, do not depend on the… (he blushed slightly) sex. My dear friend Hastings would have never been able to tie up the loose ends of criminal affairs. You are by far fitter for the task, although you need a little guidance (I knew he was trying to sugarcoat me, and I my feet impatiently). But all that, it is a puff of smoke in the eternity's eyes…

I was well-aware that Poirot had, from time to time, resurgences of Christianity. I had never said a word about that and I didn't intend to begin now. Achingly, I muffled my inmost atheist who grumbled against the detective's rosary. Some catholic verbosity was nothing compared to that piece of bigotry. In my opinion, Poirot's faith was oxymoric to his professional activities. I suspected he perfectly knew my thoughts on the subject, and was purposely spicing up his discourses with biblical allusions in order to set my teeth on edge.

Nonetheless, he hit a sensitive spot with his metaphysics. Creating a symbiosis of the female and male opponents was perhaps a hotbed where my writings could thrive more easily. Of course, I could not beat his drum too blatantly, so I interjected in the grumpiest voice I could muster:

- That could be a good beginning, but practically, how do you picture the process? I can't agree to quixotic ideas that would lead me to bankruptcy.

-_C'est très facile!_ You only have to let me dictate to you the plot in a row! Then you add your little feminine inklings, for instance, the reactions, the emotions, the caprices, and it is done!

Ha. Pig in a poke.


End file.
